


misplaced pieces

by parkjinchu



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Head Injury, Heartbreak, Hospitals, Ice Skating, Injury, M/M, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parkjinchu/pseuds/parkjinchu
Summary: with one severe injury, park minhyuk loses his renowned skating ability, and the memories of the last half-a-dozen years of his life.with that one severe injury, yoon sanha is wiped from the memory of the love of his life.this is a work of fiction, and in no way represents the real lives of astro's members. in case of astro/fantagio/reasonable fan request, this fic will be taken downread full disclaimer on my profile





	1. Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooo everyone! so in case you dont remember or you werent around to read it, i had already written and published the first three chapters of this fic! but, i didnt like it and eventually gave up on it. but, by popular demand, it is back, with more content and honestly much better writing!  
> so, i hope you enjoy misplaced pieces ver.2!
> 
> just a shorrt warning before we begin: this fic contains depictions of injury, specifically blood, bruising, and intense hopsital set-ups. thank you!

Something gleams in his eyes.

The morning sun filters in through the curtains, white and warm, soaking into the bed sheets that coil around their waists. There’s a hand on his hip, twitching occasionally, as consciousness slowly filters into the owner. He moves, and the blinding, glistening _something_ shines into his eyes again.

Lifting his head, he spots a pair of ice skates, scattered by the door on their bedroom floor.

Sanha stuffs his face back into the pillow, hiding from the assault of the gleam. When he closes his eyes, a fizzle of light dances behind his eyelids, dissipating as his sight heals. The man beside him groans softly at his movement, muscular arm sliding over Sanha’s hip and down to the small of his back. His palm is warm and smooth, as it splays against the flat area just above Sanha’s bottom, securing.

Sanha gasps. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, shuffling closer to the man, whose lips lift at the corners in response. “Go back to sleep, Minhyuk.” He runs his fingers through Minhyuk’s hair, the pads of his fingers massaging ever-so-gently. A comfort mechanism Sanha had used on him for years.

“That hasn’t worked on me in a long time,” Minhyuk mumbles, pulling Sanha’s hand away from his head, kissing his knuckles. “It’s fine – I was supposed to get up soon, anyway.”

Sanha scoffs. “It worked on you _last night_. You fell asleep in about two minutes,” he recalls. Minhyuk had rested his head on Sanha’s chest and almost mewled along to his ministrations, falling asleep, heavy and hot around Sanha. He lays his palm in the space between them, the feeling of Minhyuk’s lips tingling on his skin, “It’s so early, though – do you have practice today?”

Minhyuk nods, blinking a few times. Sanha watches him – watches his lashes flutter, the long, thin length of his eyes: sharp. Sharp, as was his gaze, most often. Though Sanha had noticed, with a secret delight, that Minhyuk’s eyes softened for few things: small animals, figure skating, and Sanha himself.

“Jinwoo wanted to have another practice today, before the competition,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep still fading. “Just to _really_ iron everything out, as if we haven’t already.”

Jinwoo was Minhyuk’s skating partner – a long-time friend of Minhyuk’s, who had known him long before Sanha had. Together, they trained, and entered competitions.

Minhyuk was a renowned figure skater. Sanha had had the privilege of watching him grow – from someone with a passion for skating, to one of the country’s best. Minhyuk was praised for his talents, his fluidity and gracefulness, and his quiet, sleek confidence. Their hallway glistens with medals, trophies, and snapshots of Minhyuk’s wins.

“But – today’s your day off,” Sanha whines, sliding closer to him. The man is shirtless, his toned chest hot and flat, like a warm rock under the sun. Sanha feels the subtle pulse of his heartbeat as their chests meet. “Do you really have to go?”

Minhyuk chuckles, winding his arms around Sanha. Although being younger, Sanha is quite a bit taller than his lover. His long legs poke out from the end of the sheets, his toes a little cold. Minhyuk hisses when they press against his warm shins.

“Yes, I really have to go. I was supposed to go for a run, anyway. I don’t want too,’ he replies, pushing a clump of Sanha’s hair out of his face and kissing his forehead. Sanha feels the familiar plush of his lips, his own mouth aching for a share, too. “I wanna stay here, in bed with you, all day,” he drawls. His kisses move lower, leaving a wet, chaste trail over his nose and around his cheek. He answers Sanha’s silent plea; finishing by capturing Sanha’s two lips in his own.

It’s an addicting feeling; an addicting flavour; an addicting emotion. Sanha revels in the kiss, humming softly. Morning breath mingles slightly, though they both ignore it – too caught up in soaking up the attention that will be stolen away from them. Minhyuk’s whole body is warm, moulded against Sanha’s – a pure, pleasurable sense.

As they part, Sanha has to catch his breath. The plush wet plush of Minhyuk’s lips close and part again, and he giggles. Nuzzling into Minhyuk’s chest, he lay his head there, lets it rise and fall with the older boy’s own breaths. His finger, which has already traced every inch of Minhyuk’s body, explores. He scales the ravine between the muscles lining his stomach, circling the shallow depth of his belly-button. A mindless task, with no purpose nor finish line, a journey taken only for the feel of _Minhyuk_ against him.

“Call in sick,” Sanha suggests.

Minhyuk plays with the younger man’s hair, twirling it around his fingers. “If I call in sick, I’m sure Jinwoo would shit himself. The ‘pre-lim’s are in three days,” he replies.

As Sanha sighs, a loud ringing is heard. Minhyuk’s pillow vibrates. He reaches beneath, tugs out his phone, and shuts off the alarm. “Told you I’d have to get up, soon, anyway,” he smiles, throwing his phone haphazardly to the other end of the bed.

The younger boy groans, rolling off his body. His skin feels cold, his arms feel empty. “No,” he whines, the word elongated childishly. “Don’t go!”

The sheets are flung over him as Minhyuk stands, stretching. Like a cat, he extends, elastic limbs plucking back to his side. Without bothering for an argument, he bends over and kisses the swirling part in Sanha’s hair, and leaves the room.

“Minhyuk,” Sanha calls, and waits for his head to pop back into their bedroom. “I love you.”

A grin splits over Minhyuk’s face – his unforgettable, remarkable grin, lively and gorgeous. “I love you, too.”

When Minhyuk leaves, Sanha is sure to see him to the door. A tradition they’d conjured up over the last few years: Sanha gets Minhyuk’s skates ready, stores them in his skating case, and wheels it to the door. Helps him put his coat on. Kisses his forehead, then his cheek, and then his lips, because just one kiss is never enough.

And, then, Minhyuk is gone.

 

*

 

The wheels of his skate case clack and rattle as he enters the building, the cold air washing over him in a wave. He shivers, zipping up his jacket a little more. He can hear the unique slick of skates gliding on ice, a sound that has filled him with excitement since he was young. Jinwoo is already on the ice, warming up with laps around the rink. He carves glistening trails behind him, that twirl with his graceful movement.

A few others training mill around the wall of the rink, stretching, or discussing the upcoming competitions. They each greet Minhyuk, whose face is familiar and well-loved in the small community.

Minhyuk lifts his cart onto the bleachers, tugging off his shoes and opening his case. Inside, Sanha had prepared his skates, wrapped up in cloth to protect them. He pulls them onto his feet, feels the heavy weight of the leather and blades on his ankles, and grins.

“Oi, Minhyuk!” A familiar voice calls, and he peers down at the rink. Jinwoo slides toward him on the ice, halting suddenly, a small puff of carved ice billowing up behind him as he stops. He leans on the railing, “You’re here!”

“Of course,” Minhyuk replies, zipping his case closed and clipping protectors onto his blades. He stands to stretch.

Jinwoo laughs, sliding back and forth, “I thought you’d ditch me, since it was kinda a last-minute practice. Thought you’d rather hang out with Sanha.”

“I _would_ rather hang out with Sanha,” the younger man replies, dipping low to stretch out his legs.

“Wow, over figure skating?” Jinwoo jokes, “I remember a time when nothing was more important to you than figure skating!”

Minhyuk grins, marching down to the rink. Pulling off his protectors, he steps onto the ice, and instantly feels the slide of it beneath his blades. He skates a few laps, practices a few jumps, Jinwoo trailing along behind him. “Honestly,” Minhyuk says after a twirl. He skates backwards, facing Jinwoo. “I don’t know why you called this practice, I’m sure we have everything down-pat.”

“Everything?” The older man chides, “You know my _Biellmann_ is getting shitty.”

Minhyuk scoffs, “Your _Biellmann_ has always been shitty.” He lightly punches Jinwoo in the shoulder.

For a while, they take turns practicing their routines, critiquing, perfecting.

During his turn, Minhyuk pulls into a near horizontal position. Gliding by the ice, he can feel the cool air push against his skin as he speeds around the corner.

He feels his leading foot shift over a rough patch in the ice, feels his centre of gravity shift and control slip, and he falls to the ground. A feeling he wasn’t unused too – his clothes soaking through, sending a cool shiver over his body, the ice quickly healing what would have formed a bruise. Unease settles in his chest – the accident could have been much worse.

He’s had worse. He will have worse.

He wasn’t hurt – just wet, and cold – but, Jinwoo skates over anyway, skidding to a halt by his body. He squats down, “You good?”

“Wet,” Minhyuk replies, with a laugh, as he pulls himself back onto his feet. “We’ve cut the ice too much… Can we get it resurfaced?”

The older man kicks his skate into the ice, grimacing at the scratching sound it makes. He glances out over the pitted rink, and nods, “Yep. I’ll get the resurface machine in. Should we take a break?”

They settle at the top of the bleachers, pulling out their lunches. Minhyuk discards his coat, lays it flat on the seat beside him in the hopes that it will dry. The two discuss the competition, over the low hum of the ice-resurfacing machine, the steps they need to take between now and the day of the preliminary event. Jinwoo’s already booked a hotel, says he got Minhyuk and Sanha a room to themselves, as per usual.

Additionally, a surprise, he got Sanha reserved-for-family seats for the competition.

Minhyuk is astounded – this has never happened before. Because he and Sanha were not married – by law’s unfair restrictions – Sanha had not been given any access into restricted areas, such as backstage in dressing rooms and warm-up courts, or V.I.P seating for the competitions. They had support from fans, trying to get Sanha into the reserved areas, but he was always denied according to various rules. Minhyuk’s publicist hadn’t bothered to support anyone’s efforts, either – he never took a liking to Sanha, thought he was too much of a distraction to Minhyuk.

He gasps, “How did you manage it?”

Jinwoo mumbles around his mouthful of food, “Spoke with the team coach, and the managers of the event. Got Sanha in not so much as a family member, but a plus-one.”

Sanha would be relieved to hear it. He’d never once complained about hiding within the crowded bleachers and waiting patiently for Minhyuk’s performances, but Minhyuk could tell he didn’t like it. He knew Sanha wanted to be there through it all. Plus, it would be nice to have the boy beside him before he goes onto the rink, for once. Sanha gives him confidence and support, like nothing and no one else.

Had, always, in fact. Sanha had been there before he’d taken skating on professionally, had even been the one to encourage him to pursue a career in figure skating. Which turned out for the best. Minhyuk was happy – work equalled play. It paid well, when he won – they had a nice, spacious apartment of their own, simple luxuries and materialistic ones, too.

More importantly – he had Sanha. Who had remained, after the break downs, after the fatigue, after the heartbreak. Who had been to every performance, tended to every injury, with lips on each fading wound, his skilful fingers with bandages and cream. Sanha who had spent evenings massaging the knots out of his muscles with heat-rub, though he hated the smell and the tingling feeling it left on his fingers. Sanha, who had kissed away the sadness at his losses and misfortunes, who had cried with him when he won.

The hum of the resurfacing machine shuts off. Minhyuk watches it slide off the rink, and out of sight. The ice is gleaming, glittering, glistening. Pulling the soakers off his blades, he tugs his skates back on. “Ready to keep practicing?”

 

*

 

The house is empty, quiet, as it most often is, when Minhyuk is practicing.

Sanha’s laptop is strewn on their coffee table, a movie open, paused in the middle of a particularly boring part. It’s sat between a half-eaten packet of biscuits and a cup of Minhyuk’s favourite tea – that Sanha didn’t really like, but drank anyway, because it smelt like Minhyuk and reminded him of his warmth. The television is quiet, the World News mundane enough to be background noise that is not distracting.

Sanha is bored.

Sanha often found himself bored, without Minhyuk or one of their friends around. But, everyone was always busy, and Sanha had yet to find a path for himself. He liked writing, and art, and music – but try as he might, he could never succeed.

Unable to get on his own two feet, unable to sell to a publisher or producer, unable to convince a critic that his works are worth their time. He tries, time and time again, has come so close – close enough that his drive remains, though, ego a little wounded. Minhyuk cheers him on, says his time will come eventually. He doesn’t need to worry so much about an income, considering Minhyuk’s earnings, so he has time.

Sanha leans back into the couch, contemplating what to do next, how to make the clock tick faster. His mind wanders.

What should they eat for dinner? He could make Minhyuk’s favourite – well deserved after an unwarranted day of practice. Would Minhyuk eat a lot? Would he need to go to the grocery store before Minhyuk returns? _He’s due back in four hours_ , Sanha thinks, _I can get it ready later_.

His phone rings, on the other side of the room. He smiles, as Minhyuk comes to mind. Walking over, he grabs it, but instead of Minhyuk’s profile icon, he’s met with Jinwoo’s smiling face. A little dorky, at times, though very angular and handsome. He wonders why Jinwoo is calling him – Jinwoo, dedicated to practice; Jinwoo, who wouldn’t let anything interrupt their training, especially before a competition.

Sanha pulls the phone to his ear. There’s a frenzy on the other line, a flurry of hurried voices in the background. Sanha can hear Jinwoo’s heavy breathing, hear him murmuring to himself, or perhaps, someone else. Jinwoo is yet to say something to him.

“Hello? Jinwoo?” Sanha calls, catching his attention.

A sniffle. “Sanha, Sanha,” he mutters, voice trembling. “There’s… There’s…”

The younger man’s brow furrows, “Jinwoo, is everything okay?”

“Sanha,” he repeats, voice hoarse and scratchy. Sanha can’t imagine him this way – level-headed Jinwoo as never seemed so on edge. “There has been a _horrible_ accident…” He says, and there’s a long pause that follows, where Sanha waits for him to say something, to elaborate. “Oh, my God, of, my _fucking_ God,” he hears Jinwoo chant, before a wretched sob crackles down the line.

 _Why is Jinwoo calling me?_ Sanha wonders, _What help can I give?_

Then, as if his mind were treading on stepping stones, connection him to the solution, he thinks of Minhyuk.

“Jinwoo…” He whispers, “Is Minhyuk okay?”

There’s a shuffling, more hurried voices. Someone shouts. “No, Sanha, no,” he replies, voice lolling and slurring, the impact of shock taking over his speech. “He’s not okay! He’s not okay!”

Suddenly, Sanha feels his chest drop, feels an emptiness as his heart stops pumping for a moment. His tongue swells, and he can’t say anything more.

 

*

 

Exhaustion is heavy on his limbs. He skates with less finesse, with fewer details, as the day progresses. He wasn’t supposed to practice, today – Minhyuk was supposed to stay at home, with Sanha, help him clean the house, help him bake the brownies they’d wanted all week.

He dips down, pulls his body into a sitting spin, one leg extended. His muscles are tired, ache at the contraction, begging to release. Minhyuk knows he should stop, knows he should throw in the towel. If he doesn’t, it will be hard for him to pick his energy back up in time for the competition. Besides, he wants to do his best – he _thought_ he’d nailed his sequence, but kept picking out flaws during the practice. He wants to iron them out – wants to show Sanha his best performance, now that he has access he’s never had before.

He doesn’t need to remember what comes next – part of being a figure skater was committing routines to muscle memory.

Minhyuk moves across the ice, a step sequence to the opposite end of the rink. He feels the cold air slap against his cheeks, sting his eyes a little, as he glides with speed. The jump sequence is coming up.

Shoving his blade into the ice, he launches himself up into the air. The world spins around him, a fragmented blur, a kaleidoscope of the world around him. He lands successfully, easily gliding out of a _Triple Axel_. He flies up again, into a _Toe Loop_ , his feet extended below him as he rises up. As he lands, his knee jars a little, sending a jolt of pain up his leg. He winces, but can’t bring himself to stop – he has to finish the routine.

 _Quad Salchow_ , he thinks, immediately soaring into the air. The world spins around him once more, as his knee leads him up into his leap. He spins, and spins, and spins. He’s nearing the end of his performance. _This might just be the last time_ , he thinks briefly, _then, I can go home to Sanha_.

He lands on his leg strangely, another jolt of pain screeching up his leg. Shocked, his foot slips out from beneath him, his blade scraping against the ice as it falls behind. He watches, almost with stupid surprise, as the ice seems to surge up to him. Minhyuk realises, in that split second, that he’s falling.

Panic soars through him, a debilitating emotion, and he attempts to draw his hands out in front of him, to break his fall. He doesn’t make it.

Pain cracks through his head, as it slams into the ice below him. It vibrates over his skull, ricocheting across his entire body. His body carries across the wet ice, cutting into the skin on his face. Vaguely, as if through water, he hears a shout, and then, nothing. His sidewards glance of the ice rink from his position on the floor, disappears.

Jinwoo shrieks, low and shocked. He watches, almost still with horror, as Minhyuk’s body slides along the rink, a dark pink, jagged and glistening trail following from his head. Blood.

There are already others hurrying onto the rink and skating over to Minhyuk, when Jinwoo finally musters up enough courage to go over himself. He hovers over his partner’s limp body, watches blood pool by his head. “Holy shit,” he whimpers, clutching onto Minhyuk’s arm. No coherent thought solidifies in his head – he can only stare at his best friend, crumpled against the ice, and let panic froth like soap in his brain.

“Keep your hands off him!” Someone shouts, tearing his grip from Minhyuk’s body. Minhyuk’s limp arm follows his released clutch, dropping back to the ice. With a wet slap, he’s much like a ragdoll.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” comes a voice.

“Hurry!” Comes another.

Jinwoo is clutching at the sleeve of his partner’s coat, shoulders shaking vigorously. He’s never seen anything like this – had never imagined this happening, especially not to Minhyuk: skilled, and graceful, in all aspects of his life. “Minhyuk?” He calls, voice choking on the end of each word, “Minhyuk, can you hear me?”

Minhyuk doesn’t respond – doesn’t even move. Jinwoo releases a hoarse, loud sob, wracking through his body. _It’s the shock_ , someone murmurs, _leave him be_. Ignoring other’s orders, he latches onto Minhyuk’s hand, squeezes the soft flesh around his fingers. “Minhyuk, you have to wake up, okay? The competition is in three days,” he demands, with half-hearted irritation, sniffling. Hot tears slide down his cheeks, quick in succession. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. You weren’t even supposed to be here, today,” he murmurs.

He pulls Minhyuk’s limp hand up to his face, feels the ice-cold touch, cries some more. Someone pulls Minhyuk’s hand from his, checks his pulse, “He’s alive. Where’s the ambulance?”

“They’re almost here.”

“I’m sorry, Minhyuk, I’m so sorry,” he chants. He wants to smooth back Minhyuk’s hair, but it’s soaked in blood.

“It’s not your fault, Jinwoo,” someone murmurs, hand on his back. He almost shrugs away from the comfort, “It was an accident.”

“Someone call his family.”

 _His family? Sanha_.

Sanha was his family.

 

*

 

“He’s not okay! He’s not okay!”

Someone orders Jinwoo to stop yelling, in the background.

Sanha feels his stomach lurch; he wants to be sick. He tries to visualise what’s happening on the other end of the line, but his imagination conjures up terrible images, each one more horrifying than the last. Where was Minhyuk? What had happened, to the love of his life? He tries to say something, tries to ask Jinwoo for an explanation, but he fears that if he opens his mouth, he will vomit.

“He slipped. On the ice, he slipped,” Jinwoo explains, without Sanha needing to ask. “He was coming out of a _Salchow_ and his foot slipped, and he just went sliding.” There’s a few gasps, a mechanical click, someone giving a monologue; _Young male, possible Cranial Edema, possible Brain Haemorrhage, currently safely clipped into supports_. “Sanha, there’s… There’s blood – everywhere. He’s not waking up.”

The words pass through Sanha’s ear, a jumble. His lungs feel as if they have filled with liquid.

“Come to the hospital. I’ll be there. I’m going in the ambulance with him, okay? Come to the emergency, Sanha, are you listening?”

His voice is a squeak, when it finally passes over his lips, “Jinwoo…” He begins, almost too terrified of the answer to ask, “Is he still alive?”

There’s a rolling of wheels. The panicked clatter in the background fades away. A heavy door is slammed shut – the start of an engine, followed by the jarring, repetitive ring of sirens. Sanha pulls the phone away from his ear, for just a moment, and strains to hear the siren outside their window – but hears nothing of the sort.

“He’s alive. He’s unresponsive, but he has a heartbeat,” Jinwoo declares, voice still quaking as it seems to jump out of his mouth. There’s a long lull in their conversation. Sanha listens to the paramedics talking to each other, in medical jargon, foreign words he cannot understand. He imagines Minhyuk strapped to a bed, blood like some sort of demonic halo around his body, imagines the ambulance sliding along the highways. “They’re not sure what’s wrong, yet.”

Jinwoo stops talking to him, simply continues to sniffle. Sanha stays on the line, waiting for a miracle – waiting for Minhyuk to wake and say something.

Sanha imagines it, imagines Minhyuk sitting up to say, ‘I’m okay, I love you’. Just once more – just to assure him everything would be okay. Briefly, he wonders if he’ll ever hear it again.

There’s a mumbling. Jinwoo is talking to Minhyuk. He hasn’t hung up, but the phone is certainly no longer by his ear. Sanha listens to his voice, a little distant, ‘ _Minhyuk, it’s Sanha, he’s on the phone. You have to be okay. The ‘pre-lim’s are soon. You have to wake up, for Sanha. Minhyuk, can you hear me?’_


	2. Losing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you okay?” Sanha asks Jinwoo, eventually. His whisper filters into the quiet room, and he feels a few eyes fall on him.
> 
> The man shrugs, blinking. “I don’t think I can be okay until I know he is,” he replies, pushing Sanha’s hair out of his face. Sanha silently agrees, pull his knees into his chest. There’s a long silence between them, developed naturally by the awkward quiet in the entire room, no one wishing to disturb anyone else. “I’m glad you weren’t there,” he says, suddenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how often ill update this, so please be patient!

Jinwoo never hangs up the phone, and Sanha is too afraid too – it’s silly and he’s knows it, but he’s worried that, if he leaves fate will understand that as his giving up, or his nonchalance. He stays on the line.

Ripping his coat from the rack and shrugging it over his shoulders, Sanha almost bounds down the stairs, tumbling out onto the streets. He races down the pavement, the sound of his sneakers like echoing claps of thunder in quick succession, phone still held up to his ear. He waits for Jinwoo to say something – waits for _Minhyuk_ to say something – but, as the minutes tick by, he loses faith.

When he reaches the subway, he slams his card onto the scanner and pushes through the gates, dodging pedestrians that flow through the station. As he waits at the platform, toes on the edge, he’s left to his own thoughts.

What might Minhyuk have been thinking, before the accident? Did he know what was happening? Did he fear he might die?

Will he wake up? Sanha knew nothing of Minhyuk’s current state – no one did. It leaves him to wonder: will Minhyuk ever wake up?

His sneaker toes the yellow line of the platform. He can hear the train coming down the tunnel, the low whistle. A breeze carries through the platform, the lights shine on the far wall. “Jinwoo?” He asks, into the phone. “Jinwoo, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. Where are you?”

The train pulls to a stop before him, the doors opening with an apprehensive wheeze. “I’m on the train,” he murmurs, clutching onto the pole in the centre of the carriage. The train rolls away from the station. “I’m coming… I’m coming, what’s happening? Is he okay?” He asks, voice small, almost hopeless.

“We just arrived at the hospital,” Jinwoo says. His voice caves in, disheartened and empty. “They wheeled him away, they wouldn’t let me in! I don’t know when we’ll hear anything.”

Sanha doesn’t respond. He can’t find the words. He holds the phone by his ear, and listens to Jinwoo’s cries. He realises, in this moment, as his friend’s sobs fizzle down the line, that he himself had yet to cry.

Guilt, simmers high in his throat. Why had he not cried, when the love of his life was in danger?

“Sanha, I’m going to hang up, now,” Jinwoo says. Sanha peers up at the subway map, he’s only one stop away. He wants to argue, to beg him to stay, but Jinwoo continues, “You’re supposed to go outside, if you want to talk on the phone, and I don’t really want to leave the waiting room…”

The younger boy sighs, “I understand,” he whispers. He would not leave, either. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

As he goes to pull the phone away from his ear, to hang up, Jinwoo beckons him, “Sanha?”

“Yeah?” he breathes.

“Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Sanha lets his arms fall from his face, and hangs up.

The walk to the hospital is brisk, leaves him a little breathless. He narrowly avoids running into others on their own routes in the subway. The hospital is a long, tall building, that folds out like a book. Windows dot the expanse, braille on the pages. There are people strolling the gardens, fatigued doctors with sagging face, unnerved family members on the arms of hospital-gowned patients, who seem happy to walk along the greenspace.

The front entrance is wide, not so accommodating. The cemented area is sprawling with people, flowing in and out, on their own journeys. The doors slide open with a puff as Sanha dashes toward the entrance, desperate to make his way closer to Minhyuk, closer to his love. Cool are tumbles over him, a briefly refreshing wave, as he stumbles past other guests.

The lobby seems a maze, dozens of halls, and desks, and doors. It takes him a moment, but he eventually spies a sign that, in large bold writing, reads _Emergency Room_. Rather intimidating, it is, for such a lifeless object, that only dangles from the ceiling.

Sanha feels as if frozen. His mind spins – what might happen if he never went in? What if, he went right back home? Would Minhyuk walk through their front door – _Sanha, baby, I’m home_ – as per usual, with his skate case in tow, only a gauze on his forehead?

He stands beyond the door, not daring to go inside. If he fully accepted that something had happened to Minhyuk, something critical, could it tempt fate to take itself another risky step further, to toy with Minhyuk’s life a little more?

His mind feels like it is flip-flopping, feels so indecisive, it might split into two halves. His mind is playing anxiety-driven, insane tricks.

Realisation dawns – there is only one way to acquire Minhyuk’s condition, and that was to go inside. No matter what, the love of his life was somewhere on the other side of the doors before him. He reaches forward, and just as his fingers clutch at the handle, the door swings open.

It’s Jinwoo.

His face is red and puffy, swollen around the eyes. His cheeks are line with a blotchy pink tinge, a reaction unique only to crying. Jinwoo hovers awkwardly in the doorframe, fingers fiddling with the handle. He’s still clad in his skating clothes – a thick pair of tights and a heavy cardigan. He wears no shoes, only a pair of socks and ankle guards – Sanha spots his discarded ice skates on a chair further forward in the emergency room.

“You’re here,” Jinwoo murmurs weakly, inviting him inside with a gentle hand against Sanha’s shoulder. He pushes him through the door and over to the row of seats where his skates lay. Sanha falls into a chair, and instantly curls himself into Jinwoo’s warmth.

He peers around the room. There are many other people scattered across the area; a woman with a full, pregnant belly, who squeezes her distressed husband’s hand; a child with an icepack on his arm, snuggled into his mother’s side; a couple, who sit anxiously by the door, as if preparing for horrible news. Sanha prepares himself for his own horrific headline.

The room is almost completely silent. Sanha listens to the ticking of the clock on the wall, the filing of papers in the administration office, the sighs from other people waiting. Sanha listens to the world continue on without him, and wonders how he ended up here. Wonders how Minhyuk ended up here. Wonders: why?

It’s been an hour and a half since the accident.

“Are you okay?” Sanha asks Jinwoo, eventually. His whisper filters into the quiet room, and he feels a few eyes fall on him.

The man shrugs, blinking. “I don’t think I can be okay until I know he is,” he replies, pushing Sanha’s hair out of his face. Sanha silently agrees, pull his knees into his chest. There’s a long silence between them, developed naturally by the awkward quiet in the entire room, no one wishing to disturb anyone else. “I’m glad you weren’t there,” he says, suddenly.

When Sanha peers up at him, Jinwoo is staring at the opposite wall, eyes vacant. An empty stare, as if he were watching something play; replaying the accident, perhaps, eyes welling up with tears, lips pursed. Sanha can’t even begin to think about how horrific it must have been – doesn’t want to think about it, and doesn’t want to ask, in case it only rocks Jinwoo further.

A doctor steps inside the room, and the atmosphere shifts, as all eyes immediately fall on him. Everyone sits a little straighter, waits for their name on his tongue, hoping for their answers. Sanha sits up higher in his seat, as the man’s eyes scan the room. Hopes, _prays_ , that they’ll meet eyes, that he’ll tell Sanha everything is okay – that Minhyuk is alive, and well, and they can continue their life together.

The doctor clears his throat. Everyone is on the edge of their seat. “Family of Choi Haneul?” He asks. The couple by the door spring up from their seats and hurry over. The doctor chats with them quickly, checking things off on a clipboard, and before all three of them disappear behind the door.

What awaits Sanha, down that hall?

The longer he waits for news, the more he worries. Each time the doctor returns, and does not call for him, the more his heart drains. New patients and family members filter in and out of the room, one at a time. Each terrifying imagination he conjures, he discards as soon as he can, trying to remove the sick feeling that curls in his stomach.

Sanha allows himself a single thought: Without Minhyuk, who would he be?

He sucks in a deep breath, feels it expand in his aching lungs, closes his eyes. Wonders, if he wishes hard enough, this will turn out to be just a nightmare.

 

*

 

“Family of Park Minhyuk?”

Sanha’s mind spins.

The doctor waits by the door, that had lead so many others to their loved ones. He stands, clipboard in hand, as Sanha shakily rises to his feet. He doesn’t feel Jinwoo follow him, and he peers down, gesturing for him to follow. The man fingers the lace of his skates, now in his lap, curling the string around his index digit, “You go. You’re family.”

Sanha swallows, “If anything, you are too.” Jinwoo smiles meekly, shrugs him off. Something coils in his throat, a painful twinge of fear that climbs up from his belly. “I don’t want to do this alone,” he whimpers, glancing at the doctor who waits with patience.

Jinwoo takes his hand, pats over it with his rough palm. “Some things you have to do alone,” he responds. His eyes spare Sanha a sorrowful, watery gaze, and he turns away.

 _Some things you have to do alone_ , he reckons, as he begins to walk over to the doctor. Each step feels as if he is challenging the impossible. The distance between them – between he and the doctor, between he and Minhyuk – feels as if it is miles. _More so, now, perhaps_.

The doctor is a tall man, with a sturdy face, softened by gentle, serene highs. A tie sits high on his neck, beneath a long white doctor’s coat. The breast pocket is stuffed with pens, an ID badge, scribbled notes. Behind the understanding smile on his lips is Minhyuk’s condition, and the rest of their life together.

“You’re family of Park Minhyuk?” He checks, quickly, lifting the clipboard up and pulling a pen from his pocket.

“I’m his partner,” Sanha answers.

The doctor stops the pen before it hits the paper, eyes scanning Sanha’s face. “We only allow immediate family to see patients in this condition.”

 _Which condition?_ Sanha wants to ask. He feels his lungs deflate, his heart picks up speed. “He doesn’t have any immediate family here,” he responds, defensive. “His parents live on the other side of the country. I’m all he has,” Sanha says. _He’s all I have_ , he realises.

He’s reminded of the numerous times he had not been considered for Minhyuk’s skating events, because they were not family by law. Having to suffer in the crowd, watching Minhyuk’s small body skate fluently across the ice. Never being there to cheer him on, to wish him good luck. Once again, he’s left out, because they couldn’t be wed.

“What’s the nature of your relationship with Park Minhyuk?” The doctor asks.

A memory floats to the surface of Sanha’s mind, a buoy in a raging ocean.

_The night of Minhyuk’s first win._

_Sanha waits for him to return, in the hotel room, perched on the end of the bed. The evening is bright and warm, and he’s filled with pride, bubbling in his chest._

_He’d watched from the third row of the bleachers, watched Minhyuk gracefully skate, his hard work and dedication on the ice for the world to see. Watched as Minhyuk proudly stepped on the highest pedestal, accepted the garland of flowers and a big gold medal. The classic clacking of thousands of photos taken, Sanha tried to scream his love and cheers over the sound of it._

_He hears the lock of the hotel room click as it slides back. The door swings open, and Minhyuk steps inside, discarding his skate case as he launches himself toward Sanha. Sanha wraps him in his arms, chants his congratulations, presses kisses to every inch of his face. Minhyuk’s floral garland falls off, rolls onto the sheets, a few petals scattering._

_“I’m so proud of you,” Sanha whispers, fiddling with the gold medal around his lover’s neck._

_Minhyuk grins, kissing Sanha’s nose, “I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs. He takes the garland and fits it on the crown of the younger boy’s head, smoothing his hair back. His eyes are shining, as he looks down at Sanha._

_Sanha scoffs, “That’s a lie.”_

_“No, really,” the older boy says, his grin never falling from his lips. “I wouldn’t be here without you. You encouraged me every step of the way, ever since the very, very beginning.”_

_Sanha smiles, presses a kiss to the underside of Minhyuk’s jaw. “I love you, too,” he replies, understanding Minhyuk though he had not explained himself._

_Minhyuk carefully pulls the medal off from around his neck. He lets Sanha’s fingers peel his coat back, roam his bare chest. “You know?” He asks, as he lay Sanha down, the garland crinkling a little. He presses a kiss to his collarbone. “I’m going to marry you, one day.”_

Sanha yearns for the feeling of Minhyuk’s touch, loving and secure and _familiar_.

His fingers touch his collarbones, feels the ghost of Minhyuk’s love. “We’ll get married, someday, if we can,” he answers, with no hesitation.

The doctor eyes him warily, but he hands the clipboard to Sanha nonetheless. “Please write your name, number and home address, and fill out whichever of Minhyuk’s details that you can, and you can come with me.”

Sanha quickly scrawls everything he needs, down on the page. Minhyuk’s full name, parent’s names, phone number, birthdate, allergies, previous injuries – the same home address.

The doctor scans the page and nods, pushing his hand down on the door handle. Sanha peers back at Jinwoo, who’s head is buried in his knees. The doctor, one hand on Sanha’s shoulder blade, leads him down the hall. The bright, artificial lights glare in his eyes. He talks as they walk, “Were you present when the accident occurred?”

Sanha shakes his head.

“According to witnesses,” he begins, and Sanha instantly thinks of Jinwoo. “He was skating when he fell, and hit his head on the ice. The impact was very severe, and has caused a serious swelling in his brain.” He pauses, and watches Sanha’s bleary eyes. “Minhyuk is alive – but, he’s in a very critical condition.”

They come to a window, blinds drawn down. The paper insert in the plaque beside the doorframe reads Minhyuk’s name, the familiarity of the characters in black-and-white. Sanha’s lip trembles, this was real. The doctor mumbles something about preparing for what he’s about to see, and Sanha nods, not quite listening; the love of his life is on the other side of that door – alive.

The door swings open. The room is well-lit, just as the hallway. There’s a bed in the centre of the room, surrounded by foreign equipment that beeps, buzzes and flashes.

Sanha feels as if there is something crushing his chest. Minhyuk lay, as if lifeless, on the bed, wires snaking over and inside his body. He hurriedly steps over, feeling his knees give out, as he collapses bedside. His hand clutches at Minhyuk’s limp one, squeezing it, and feeling no response. Sanha’s heart hammers in his ears.

There’s a tube set between Minhyuk’s lips, the ones he had kissed so many times, the ventilator it’s connected to making a harsh, rhythmic noise – he can’t breathe on his own. Once, his own lips breathed life into the boy who lay before him. There are clips on his fingers, tape and catheters on the backs of his hands, on his chest too, like jewellery. His hair is pushed back off his face, a large bald spot where the doctors had shaved the hair away to access the damage. There’s a sickeningly purple-black bruise, the snaking line of stitches, a large swelling on the crown of his skull. In placed of where, so many times, first-place garlands had sat, instead.

Sanha feels the first, choking sob escape him. “Minhyuk?” He calls, through his tears. Warm and wet, one after another. They trail over his cheeks and collect under his chin, falling onto the scratchy hospital blanket Minhyuk lay beneath. “It’s me, Sanha,” he murmurs shakily, squeezing his hand again. He can’t peel his eyes away, but he asks the doctor, “What happened to him?”

“We’re still assessing for any other problems. He suffered mild blood loss, too. But, the injury to his head is so severe, he had to medically induce him comatose so the swelling in his brain does not worsen.”

Sanha bites on his lip, rubs his thumb over the corner of Minhyuk’s.

He imagines, as if their life was a fairy tale, a single kiss would wake him up. Sanha bends down, presses a quivering kiss to his cheek.

Minhyuk doesn’t respond.

Sanha wipes furiously at his eyes. He turns, the doctor still waits by the door. Were doctors used to scenes like this? Had they grown a tolerance for such displays of misery and torture? Do doctors, by years of work, learn a unique patience, for situations such as these?

“Can he hear me?” Sanha asks.

The doctor nods. “He can hear you, but he can’t respond. It will probably sound garbled, to him, and he might not recognise who you are. But, you should talk to him.”

Sanha turns back to him, “Minhyuk, baby,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “I’m here, now. Everything will be okay.”

He stays bedside, quietly running his fingers up and down Minhyuk’s forearm. Experimentally, he’ll occasionally press his fingers over the end of his lover’s wrist, will feel his pulse beat back against his skin and take a deep breath of relief.

Eventually, the doctor steps into the room and pulls Sanha aside, handing him a long list of requirements and things he must understand. There’s a list of strange, foreign words and chemicals, that will enter Minhyuk’s body to try and keep him alive. There are exercises they can perform so his muscles do not weaken, so he does not develop bedsores. The doctor goes over it with him, all while Minhyuk lay behind them. The booklet is pages upon pages of text, expressing that, basically, _nothing is assured_.

Not Minhyuk’s health, not Minhyuk’s condition, and not Minhyuk’s life.

The doctor looks at him, a slither of grief on his features, “You have to understand that we will do everything in our power to keep Minhyuk alive, and functioning if he wakes up. But, we can’t assure anything.”

Sanha nods, his eyes welling up.

“There are things you can do in the meantime,” the doctor adds, allowing a small smile onto his face. Sanha nods once more, submissive. “We’ll start teaching you everything tomorrow, but for now, Minhyuk needs to rest, and I think you might need some as well,” he says, softly.

Sanha’s shoulders tremble, “I don’t want to go home,” he replies, looking over his shoulder at Minhyuk.

“We’ll set up the room for you to stay, too,” he says. “You should gather some things from home, though. Toiletries, books, clothes… Or, at the very least, get someone to do it. You can’t spend all your time, in this room, Mr. Yoon,” he murmurs. Sanha gives a half-hearted nod.

“Can… Can Minhyuk have other guests?”

“That’s for you to decide,” he replies. With that, and a small goodbye and promise to return, he steps away and out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Suddenly, he and Minhyuk are alone.

Sanha collapses by the frame of Minhyuk’s bed. He reaches up, strokes his chin. Here and now, Minhyuk looks so vulnerable and small, so incredibly fragile. Very different to the Minhyuk Sanha knew and loved. Minhyuk had always been there for him, had always been the one to care for him. Suddenly, it seems as if their roles had been reversed. Everything Sanha knew had been turned on its head.

“Why did this have to happen to you?” He asks, running a finger down Minhyuk’s neck, over the line of his throat. He feels the machine push air from the tube into Minhyuk’s lungs. “Why did this have to happen to us?”

Minhyuk is still, for the most part, completely unresponsive. The machines beep. Sanha watches the screen of the heartrate monitor, watches the green lifeline bounce. Gently, he moves his hand over Minhyuk’s chest, just right of centre, feels the pulse of his heartbeat.

“We’ll be okay, right?” Sanha murmurs. He lifts Minhyuk’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles the way Minhyuk had done to him that very morning.

Minhyuk won’t respond.

 

*

 

When Jinwoo had first seen Minhyuk in bed, he too broke down. He would leave every now and then, with an excuse to get them both food, and returns each time with a redder, puffier face than when he left. He doesn’t stay the night, for a multitude of reasons. Jinwoo hugs Sanha when he leaves, pats Minhyuk’s arm, promises them both he’ll be back in the morning.

A nurse helps Sanha make a bed up for him. Thanks to Minhyuk’s career, and his situation, they’re given a private room. They don’t need to worry about anyone else. Even so, Sanha can’t sleep. From his own bed, he reaches over the barrier between them and holds Minhyuk’s hand, lacing their fingers together. He traces the outline of the man he knew so well, imagines what he’d be doing right now if this hadn’t happened.

They’d probably have eaten dinner, already. They might be on the couch, watching television, Sanha massaging Minhyuk’s aching muscles. Or, they could be in bed, quietly enjoying each other’s presence, as they so often found themselves, interactions peppered with gentle kisses. Perhaps, they could be on the rooftop, scouting for shooting stars, to make wishes on – wishes that Minhyuk will win the next competition, in three short days.

“Goodnight, Minhyuk,” Sanha whispers, and almost expects a response. He was not used to this, to this silence. When a response does not arrive, he continues, “I love you.”

 

*

 

When he wakes the next morning, the sun peers in through the window. It’s warm against the sheets, and Sanha melts into the feeling of it. As sleep dissolves from his mind, it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

First of all, the blankets aren’t as soft as theirs. Secondly, the walls are not painted the same colour. And, lastly, he cannot feel the heat of Minhyuk’s body beside his own.

Minhyuk is in the same position he was in, when Sanha fell asleep. In the same position he was in, when Sanha opened the door, when he saw him for the first time after the accident. He tries not to let the heartbreak settle in, but with no distractions, it does. Change was usually exciting, but Sanha reckons he could never get used to this.

Breakfast is delivered by Jinwoo, some pancakes from a café down the street. They sit across from each other in Sanha’s bed, and try to ignore the near-lifeless person beside them, but Minhyuk’s presence casts a heavy weight on their silence.

Minhyuk’s publicist shuffles into the room and shares his condolences, and pulls Jinwoo aside to talk about the situation. Their publicist has never quite taken a liking to Sanha, thought he got in the way of Minhyuk’s career.

A nurse visits, eventually. Jinwoo is kind enough to step aside as she walks Sanha through Minhyuk’s daily exercises. The nurse teaches him how to stretch and work Minhyuk’s muscles without hurting him, how to change his position without messing with the ventilator or the catheters. Minhyuk’s body, once strong and determined, that moved fluidly and without intent, now follows his ministrations limply, like a ragdoll.

Minhyuk is fed, too. Via a tube, that disappears inside his body. Sanha is so perplexed by the by the action, must look away every time Minhyuk is to ‘have a meal’.

Things get worse on the second day of Minhyuk’s coma. Sanha is in the midst of stretching his legs, and massaging his muscles, when Jinwoo rushes inside, looking a little dishevelled. “News reporters,” he huffs, hands on his knees. His back rises and falls, as he tries together his breath. “There are news reporters outside – they want to know about Minhyuk.”

“What?” Sanha asks, dropping Minhyuk’s leg into his lap. He grips onto it, subconsciously.

“I pulled him out of the competition, last night,” he explains, running his fingers through his hair. Minhyuk had been excited for this new competition, and now he lays here, unaware of everything around them. “They must have seen, someone must have said something to the public. Maybe someone at the rink said something, maybe his publicist said something,” he guesses, fretting as he paces back and forth along the wall.

Sanha breathes, “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he replies, “I had to dodge them on the way in.”

“What do we do?” Sanha doesn’t know how any of this works. He doesn’t think Jinwoo would know, either. When had they faced a situation like this?

Jinwoo pauses, contemplating. “We need to get the publicist in. He’ll make the best decision for Minhyuk. There are fans leaving gifts and flowers outside, the hospital’s going to get annoyed, surely.”

“You call him, he doesn’t like me,” Sanha mumbles, and eavesdrops as Jinwoo talks with him. It’s about an hour later, when the man knocks on the door, briefcase in hand, and glasses on the end of his nose.

He sits in a chair at the end of Minhyuk’s bed, “Yeah,” he confirms. “I told the press. What else was I supposed to do? They’d ask a billion questions if it seemed like we’d pulled Minhyuk out for no reason. It’d tarnish his rep.” He looks directly at Jinwoo when he speaks.

Sanha has always felt a little alienated when it came to Minhyuk’s career. Never allowed in to his training rooms, changing rooms, or down by the rink. Always excluded from conversations with his coaches, publicist, and even teammates from the home rink. Other Olympic skaters regarded him with, almost, caution. Minhyuk did his best to include Sanha, but no one else seemed to try.

“What exactly did you say? Everyone’s freaking out,” Jinwoo asks.

“I said that Minhyuk was pulled from the competition due to a severe injury,” he replies. “It’s bringing heaps of media attention, and to the competition as well. All press is good press,” he seems proud of himself. Sanha sits at the foot of Minhyuk’s bed, his toes tucked beneath the blankets. He listens in silence. “Plus, we’ve got support money rolling in. People are donating for his hospital bills.”

“As if we need it,” Sanha murmurs, and the publicist rolls his eyes. Minhyuk had been putting money into insurance for years, in case something happened. He was a little relieved, to see the money there. Neither of them predicted the use for the money would be this severe, though.

“Look, you take money where you can get it,” he grumbles in reply, and Sanha wonders how much of it will go into his pocket.

Jinwoo pulls the attention back to the situation at hand, “So, what will we do about everyone outside? The hospital will probably complain soon. It’s obviously a disturbance to the guests, it’s going to get in the way of everything they do, too. An official report?”

“We’ll get someone to make an official report. Will your coach do it?”

“I’ll do it,” Sanha pipes up, toying with hems of his jeans.

The publicist turns his head over to Sanha, “Why would I get you to do it?” He spits.

“I’m his partner. I’m the one who is going to be sitting here, day in and day out. I might as well be the one who keeps everyone updated.”

His publicist blinks, scoffs, then rolls his eyes. “Exactly. You’re his _partner_. This is a business matter, not a family matter,” he argues. Sanha chews on his lip, ducks his head down. He’s talking to Jinwoo again, “Let’s sort this all out today so that everything’s ready for the competition.”

When he leaves, Jinwoo shuts the door behind him. “Can I get Minhyuk a new publicist?” He asks, and Jinwoo shrugs.

Later that night, Minhyuk is on the news. He watches clips of Minhyuk’s marvellous skating, listens to the monotonous drone of the news reporter, who lists the details of his current situation. There are clips of people gathered outside the hospital, of flowers and teddies and cards, of the publicist sharing information. Sanha grips his lover’s hand, whispers that everything will be okay, even if he has no idea himself.

The days are long and hard. Minhyuk’s parents come to visit, eventually. They’re too distressed to stay for very long, and only hang around for a few hours before leaving. Sanha wonders what it must be like to know someone for their entire life, and watch them balance on the tightrope between life and death.

Other visitors come and go, the coach and the other skaters from the home rink. Jinwoo is the most frequent visitor, and brings with him food, clothes, and Sanha’s computer. They play games of tic-tac-toe and online-chess together, as a distraction. The media stick around, won’t leave until they find out more.

Sanha remains by Minhyuk’s bedside, day-in and day-out. Sanha is there for every new dosage of medicine, every stretch, every monitor beep and flash. He talks to Minhyuk, as if he were awake and responsive and listening, talking about their favourite show, or his struggles in writing. Minhyuk dutifully listens – though he has no choice, Sanha knows he would have listened anyway.

The day of the competition begins, and more support from fans floods in. Sanha turns to the internet to thank everyone for their kindness, but pulls his message down after Minhyuk’s publicist calls him and tells him to take it down. Jinwoo doesn’t come in in the morning, but calls Sanha on his way to the airport.

Sanha watches the television as Jinwoo skates, twirling beautifully across the ice. There was something mesmerising about the way he performed, smooth and fluid, like he was made to dance in across the ice and in the air. When he finishes the performance, in the middle of the ice, he dedicates his skate to Minhyuk, who was not watching.

“Did you hear that, ‘Hyukkie? Sanha murmurs, running his fingers through Minhyuk’s hair, over the peach fuzz of his shaved patch, delicately stroking over his bruise, avoiding the stitches. “Jinwoo did his skate for you,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheekbone. He almost expects to feel the way Minhyuk’s cheeks lift when he kisses him, expects to feel the warmth of his skin and hear the rumble of his laughter.

He hadn’t gotten used to this, yet.

Would he ever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love receiving feedback! you can leave some here, or drop into my [twitter](twitter.com/parkjinchu) or my [tumblr](parkjinchu.tumblr.com)! lets chat


	3. Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sanha is confronted by the decision of minhyuk's lifetime, and the consequences of their position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! im just gonna upload this chapter and whoever happens to see it sees it! not gonna share it on sns. i need to rewrite a few of the chapters ive written so far and iron everything out, so to get back in the swing of things i thought id upload the next chapter! hope you enjoy!

The days tick by. Sanha’s time without Minhyuk stretches on, seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours and hours into days.

Days without Minhyuk’s smile, without his laugh. Without Minhyuk’s kiss, or hug, or loving word. Days without the feeling of his breath along Sanha’s collarbone, without the pulse of his heart beside Sanha’s own.

Instead, he lay still, in a hospital bed, lost to the world.

On day eight, Jinwoo brings Sanha’s guitar from their home and asks him to play it. Sanha perches on the end of Minhyuk’s bed, toying with the tuning pegs as Jinwoo drags a chair up to Minhyuk’s bedside. He sings along to the songs Sanha plays, filling the room with jolly music, a temporary attempt to disguise the melancholy feelings that plague them.

Nowhere near close enough to fill the hole in his heart, but close enough to ease the pain a little. It was so different, on this day. Sanha has many memories of days like this, where he, Minhyuk, and their friends are all crouched by a fire, or around the coffee table. He’d strum on the guitar, feel the strings pluck against his fingers, and feel Minhyuk’s heat as it was pressed against his side.

Day nine, Sanha asks Jinwoo to print out some photos, so he can tack them to the pin-board in the corner of the room. He agrees, quietly, and arrives back after a short while with a stack of photos in his hands. Jinwoo watches, quietly from Minhyuk’s bedside, as Sanha arranges the photos on the wall. There are photos of the two of them, of Minhyuk’s award winning performances, of the three of them at parties. Of Minhyuk and his family, of Minhyuk with Sanha’s family. Hundreds of memories, frozen in snapshots.

Jinwoo sighs, as Sanha works, and he looks over his shoulder. “What’s up?” He asks, around the pin between his teeth. Jinwoo doesn’t respond, sinking a little into his seat. With his thumb, Sanha takes the pin and shoves it into the top of a photo of Minhyuk holding Sanha’s older brother’s baby girl. He grins at the memory. “Jinwoo?”

The older man’s voice wavers gently, “Have you left this room, much, at all?” He asks, tentatively.

Sanha’s brows furrow, hands stilling on the board. “Every now and then,” he responds, lips pursing. If only to get food when Jinwoo wasn’t around, to wash and dress, or to wander about whenever it was time for Minhyuk’s feed or time for the toilet.

Jinwoo shakes his head gently, “Sanha…” He murmurs. He doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t _need_ to for Sanha to know Jinwoo wanted to scold him.

His eyes prickle with hot tears, and he nibbles on the plush of his lip. Leaping to his own defence, his words blubber out of him, “I need…” He chokes, “I need to be here for him.” A long silence hangs heavy in the air, thick as the city smog. “What if something happens, and I’m not there for him?”

His voice crackles out of him, thin and weary, a little ghostly. “What if something happens…” He whispers, “And he’s not here anymore?”

Jinwoo shakily rises to his feet, hovers over to where Sanha sits, shoulders slumped over his weakening frame. The thought alone was enough to make both of them break down. To hear the suggestion uttered aloud, it made them both crumble. Sanha falls against Jinwoo’s chest and cries into the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and wishes Minhyuk were there to comfort him.

Doctors and nurses come in and out of the room, multiple times a day. They’d walked in on Sanha stretching Minhyuk, or kissing his cheeks, or organising his laundry. It felt rather strange, a little invasive, a bit embarrassing, even. They never seemed to mind, though. The staff were modest, and apologetic, and went about their business without too much disturbance.

It comes as a surprise, then, when the doctor most involved with Minhyuk’s situation walks in, a grave look set on his face. Sanha is brushing non-existent knots out of Minhyuk’s hair with a comb, when he knocks on the door, and quietly beckons him outside. Sanha sets the comb back in his toiletries bag and follows him out into the hall.

The doctor is talking _at_ him rather than _to_ him, as a minute passes before Sanha can process the doctor’s words: Minhyuk’s life is in Sanha’s hands.

“The longer we have a patient in a coma, the higher the chance that if they do wake, they’ll be severely disabled. As an athlete, this will make life even more frustrating and difficult for Minhyuk.” The doctor casts his eyes to the floor for a moment, and then he looks back up to Sanha. “There’s no easy way to say, or go about this, but it’s up to you, as his partner, as to how long we keep Mr. Park on life supports.”

Sanha thinks he’s gone numb. Thinks his insides are curdling.

“Of course, we’re only a few days into Minhyuk’s coma and this is not a problem, yet – but it is something you need to be aware of should he remain in a coma for the next three-or-so weeks,” he continues.

Sanha can’t sleep that night. He tosses and turns, the doctor’s spiel spinning his mind, coiling in his brain. If Minhyuk remains in this condition, practically lifeless, Sanha has to decide whether he risks Minhyuk’s future, or ends his life altogether.

At first, he thinks, _who would kill the love of their life?_

And, then, he wonders, _who would be so selfish to risk the stability of the love of their life?_

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses to Minhyuk, whose form is bathed under the moonlight, under the eerie green flicker of the heartrate monitor. In response, the ventilator makes a harsh noise as it provides Minhyuk oxygen. “I love you,” he whimpers, into the night. “I don’t want you to go!” He cries.

There is no response. He feels the urge building in his legs to kick and scream, but has to dampen it, in case he knocks one of the machines keeping Minhyuk alive. Instead, he melts into the sheets, gently grabbing a hold of Minhyuk’s taped and tethered hand, and presses kisses along the inside of his palm, along his lifeline.

The moral debate ticks in his head, like a time-bomb, as the days progress.

Day ten, Jinwoo tugs Sanha out of the hospital room. Away from the four white walls, the harsh lights, the chemical smell that seemed to stain the inside of his noise. With a supportive smile, Jinwoo wraps an arm around his waist and walks him out.

“You need a change of scenery. I think it’ll make you feel better.”

Sanha listens to the click of the door jamb behind them, looks over his shoulder as Minhyuk’s nametag by the door gets smaller and smaller. His heart jumps up to his throat, beating behind his teeth as they draw further and further away from Minhyuk.

The sun prickles on his skin as he steps outside, and the fresh breeze is calming as he breathes it in. Perhaps it does make him feel a little better. They sit side-by-side on a park bench, as the world whisks by them. Jinwoo reads a book, the pages flicking every minute or so.

The change in scenery is surely nice, but something feels like it’s missing. Sanha watches people move past them; office workers on their breaks, people on jogs, couples and families. These strangers walk through the breeze, the shadows dancing on their faces as they move freely.

Minhyuk. Minhyuk is missing.

The decision he was yet to make was weighing on his mind, tipping side to side like scales. To lose his love, or risking his love losing what made him himself? He wants to believe that Minhyuk will pull through, that he’ll defeat the odds, but he isn’t sure. It’s been ten, long days without him.

Minhyuk hadn’t spoken to him, touched him, _loved_ him, in ten long days and nights. Sanha had lived through ten sunrises without Minhyuk’s warm body pressed against his. Had suffered ten nights without the sound of his breathing, and the beat of his heart. He didn’t know how much longer he could last, without Minhyuk. There was still a _chance_ that he’d be okay, after all of this passed.

Perhaps he was too selfish, but Sanha would risk it all, just to have Minhyuk back.

“I wouldn’t be able to do it,” Sanha says, into the air. He feels Jinwoo shift on the bench, feels his gaze burning into the side of his face. “I wouldn’t be able to live without him, if he died. I wouldn’t be able to live, especially if I was the one that said yes. If I was the one who took him off life supports.”

Jinwoo lowers his novel, resting it open, splayed over his thigh. His hand rubs at Sanha’s shoulder, soothing enough to calm his heart that had begun to pound upon his ribcage. “Everything’s gonna be okay,” he tells Sanha, certainty wavering in his tone. He seems to say it, not because he believes it, but because he feels he has too.

Sanha feels his eyes well up, tears pricking along his waterline. His eyes have been constantly swollen, lately. He blinks them back, looking up into the canopy of trees above and convincing himself that the happy blue of the clear sky was enough to heal him.

“What else can we do?” Jinwoo mumbles, fingers finding their way into Sanha’s hair. “To make you feel better?” They massage against the base of his head, coaxing the tears to finally fall from Sanha’s eyes. “How about we go to the library, get you some books to entertain yourself at the hospital?” He suggests, gesturing to the book on his lap.

Sanha couldn’t find it in himself to care, simply letting Jinwoo lead him through the city and toward the library. Jinwoo tries his best to cheer him up, and probably himself, too, exclaiming under his breath at the dozens of shelves stacked with books. Sanha carries back to the hospital a bag full of distractions, and hopes they’ll do the trick.

Come day eleven, Sanha has already read through one of the thinner books of his new collection. They proved to be an alright distraction, and he completely delved into the new worlds, words brought to life in his mind. Within these pages exists a world where, not only are he and Minhyuk not in this situation, but they do not exist at all.

He reads aloud, and chats to an unresponsive Minhyuk – because the nurses had said to always involve him in what he was doing. He takes them both through each chapter, wondering aloud to Minhyuk, as if he would reply with his own thoughts. Sanha wonders what he might be thinking, if he is thinking anything at all.

He looks up, at a particularly interesting plot twist, to exclaim to Minhyuk – whose eyes are wide open.

Sanha’s body feels as if it’s paralysed, his limbs unable to move. His heart soars up into his throat, his gut twisting. _Was Minhyuk awake? Had he woken up?_

Minhyuk blinks, eyes a little vacant. Sanha gasps, managing to bring himself to sit up. “Minhyuk?” He asks, closing the book on his fingers. He inches forward, careful, as if Minhyuk were a small animal and he did not want to frighten him. “Hyuk? Are you awake?” He asks, waving a hand in front of Minhyuk’s open eyes.

The man blinks once more, before his head lolls to the other side, and his eyes shut once more.

“Minhyuk!” Sanha cries, grabbing at his arm. The wires connected to Minhyuk follow his shaking, getting caught up in the blankets. “You were awake! I saw you!” He screeches. Minhyuk remains still, limp in his touch. Sanha scrambles to reach the nurse alarm, grasping it and jabbing his thumb into the big, bright red ‘call’ button. Down the hall, a little faintly, he hears an alarm ring, and a flurry of footsteps.

Two nurses rush into the room, their tennis shoes squeaking along the tiles, their coats dancing behind them. Sanha is sitting at the end of Minhyuk’s bed, and he points an accusing finger at him, “He was awake! He saw me, he moved his head!” He yelps. The nurses glance at each other, briefly, before moving closer to the bed. “You believe me, right? He really did it!”

One nurse is checking the recordings from the machines, the other stops behind Sanha, one gentle hand on his shoulder. Sanha feels tears dribble over his cheeks weakly, and with a hint of shame, he leans into her touch.

“He’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” the nurse by the machines says, eyes flickering between the two of them.

“What?”

The nurse behind him hums, “He woke up, but he was too weak to stay awake.” Sanha hangs his head, feeling his tears drip onto his thighs. “This is a good sign, you know?” She says, and rubs Sanha’s shoulder again. “He’s on the road to recovery! What were you doing at the time?”

“Reading,” Sanha answers, reaching for the book and waving it in the air.

“Keep doing it, keep talking to him – he’s responded well,” she says, with a quaint smile.

After reorganising the wires and filling out some information in Minhyuk’s files, the two nurses leave, and the two are alone again.

“Hey,” Sanha whispers to Minhyuk. He slips his fingers in between Minhyuk’s, lacing their hands together and squeezing, “You’ll come back to me, right?”

Perhaps he was imagining it, perhaps he was projecting, but he was sure he felt Minhyuk squeeze back.

Sanha doesn’t take his eyes off Minhyuk for the next few days. He wakes up numerous times, only to fall back into unconsciousness shortly thereafter. He will move his head, and his eyes, might wiggle his toes – this is a victory that Jinwoo particularly celebrates, seeing that his legs are still in working order. Whenever Minhyuk is conscious, even if only for a short minute, Sanha cheers him on.

He massages and stretches Minhyuk’s muscles, holds pictures up to his eyes and things up to his nose to smell. Minhyuk doesn’t respond at all, simply stares vacantly at him and lets the ventilator pump air into his lungs, before shutting his eyes and falling back ‘asleep’.

On the fourteenth night, the moonlight shines in stretched arcs over their beds. Sanha plays with the short hairs over Minhyuk’s healing bruise, the string of the stitches disguised amongst his hair, “You’ll come back soon, right?” He whispers, before pressing a kiss to his mottled, still purple scalp. “I need you back soon, okay?”

Was it a miracle? Or, had Minhyuk listened to him?

On the fifteenth day, Sanha wakes with his head tucked in the blankets, his nose warm under the sun-soaked sheets. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the knots, sitting up to stretch. “Morning, ‘Hyuk,” he yawns, before turning around to face the man. He had not anticipated his eyes to be wide open, staring right back at him.

“Oh! You’re awake again!” Sanha grins, shuffling around to face Minhyuk. “How are you feeling?” He asks, and Minhyuk blinks at him.

He chats with Minhyuk for a while, grabbing another book from his bedside table and reading it aloud. Expecting Minhyuk to fall unconscious again, he is surprised when he looks up to see Minhyuk still watching him. “Hey, what are you doing?” Sanha accuses, bashfully. He stumbles out of bed, and to the other side of Minhyuk’s bed, where the button for the nurse is. Minhyuk’s gaze follows him all the way around.

“Are you gonna go back to sleep?” Sanha asks, thumb hovering over the button, waiting to press.

There’s a moment of pause, in which Minhyuk blinks. A garbled mumble rumbles out of his throat and out from between his lips. Sanha gasps, slamming his thumb down on the call button. He hears it ring down the hall, as it had the first time Minhyuk woke, and he pokes his head out into the hall. “He’s awake! He’s really awake!” Sanha calls to the nurses skittering down the hall. They eye him with a little suspicion. “He’s been awake all morning, and he’s made a noise!”

The nurses step inside the room, elegant and efficient as they work around Minhyuk, who lays in bed with wide, confused eyes. He makes garbled noises at them as they hover around him. “We’ll get some relievers in him,” one nurse states, perhaps to another, or to Sanha, and Minhyuk’s eyes widen further.

The heart-rate monitor picks up a little, and Minhyuk groans. His head shifts a little, shaking, and Sanha watches his feet shift under the blankets on the other end of the bed. He’s anxious, maybe even shocked.

One nurse bends over him, “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Park, but we need you to remain calm,” she says, her voice gentle and easy. Minhyuk blinks back at her, and Sanha watches the green line of the heart-rate monitor slow. “We’re going to relieve some of the pain you may be feeling, okay? Make a noise if you understand.”

A low, rumbling groan echoes around the tube between Minhyuk’s lips. Sanha grips onto his hand, and watches Minhyuk’s gaze catch his own.

“Good,” she says, tone soothing and secure. Sanha watches as the nurses work around him, exchanging wires and packages of fluids. “Thank you, Mr. Park,” he says, before turning to Sanha. “Mr. Yoon, a word,” she beckons, and she steps out into the hall. Sanha wants to stay, but he follows her nonetheless, peering over his shoulder. He meets Minhyuk’s eye before the door closes.

“I’m sure you won’t mind, but we’ll need your help a lot over the next few days. Mr. Park will be learning to eat, drink, walk, and talk all over again, and for that reason I ask that you don’t override his senses. With too much information all at once, Mr. Park will be confused and exhausted.” Sanha nods. “Continue to stretch him, and encourage him when he attempts to move and talk. We’ll slowly weaken some of his treatments, like the ventilator, so he’ll learn to do more on his own.”

Sanha breathes out slowly.

“Hey,” she says, softly, tone a lot friendlier than moments ago, shedding formalities. “You’re doing well.”

When they’re alone again, Sanha sighs deeply, and clutches onto Minhyuk’s hand. “Hey,” he calls, and Minhyuk’s eyes skitter over his face, brows furrowed slightly. “I’m so proud of you, I love you. Let’s get through this together, yeah?” He murmurs. Minhyuk doesn’t look away from him.

Over the following days, Sanha aids Minhyuk in healing. Keeping his distance in order to make Minhyuk heal faster, Sanha limits himself to stretching and massaging him. Each day he improves, until he is able to move a little more, sit up, eat, breathe, and talk basically enough to express his needs and feelings.

“How are you, Mr. Park?” Their doctors asked, one morning.

“Sore,” Minhyuk replied, staring up at him.

At one point, he had turned to Sanha, “Water,” he had commanded, and Sanha had fetched him a cup of water, holding it up to Minhyuk’s lips. When he had finished, he had glanced sideways at Sanha, a little shy, and muttered, “Thanks.”

Other than this, he was yet to hold a conversation.

On day twenty-two in the hospital, Jinwoo calls. He’s yet to visit Minhyuk since he woke up, having progressed through to the next round of the competition, and training every day. “Have his parents visited yet?”

Sanha sits on the end of his bed, “Not yet… They wanted to come but their car broke down, so they’re sorting a few things out,” he replies, massaging the end of Minhyuk’s leg. “Hopefully they’ll be here soon.”

There’s a moment where neither of them say anything. Minhyuk is staring at Sanha, mapping out his face. “Can he move his legs?” Jinwoo asks, a little apprehensively.

“A little! I reckon he’ll be walking in no time!” He grins at Minhyuk. “We start rehabilitation in two days, don’t we, Minhyuk?”

“I’ve got a little time to visit tomorrow, so I might swing ‘round!”

Sanha grins, “Hear that?” He asks Minhyuk, “Jinwoo is coming tomorrow.” At the sound of his name, Minhyuk’s eyes widen a little. Sanha feels his smile split wider.

When Sanha hangs up, Minhyuk coughs, catching his attention. His eyes are wide and imploring, his faint crease between his brows. “Jinwoo?” He asks, his tone stretching as a question. He waits for Sanha’s confirmation, and then his lips pull into an awkward grin.

“Excited to see him?”

Minhyuk glances out the window, a quiver of a smile on his lips. “Yeah.”

The next morning, Minhyuk’s hands lazily fumble with the wires snaking over his limb. He’s able to drink on his own now, cup in hand, and sometimes he shifts his legs, raising them up, like the peak of a mountain made of blankets. Every now and then, he’ll glance at the door, impatience painted on his face.

Strict instructions, Jinwoo is told to behave positively around Minhyuk, to wholeheartedly encourage his improvements. When he opens up the door to Minhyuk’s room, the man in bed grins widely, but his face quickly falls shortly thereafter, twisting with confusion.

“Hey! Minhyuk, how are you?” Jinwoo grins, patting his best friend’s leg, gently, as he takes a seat by his bed. He drags the chair closer, “I missed you!”

Minhyuk chews on his lower lip, eyes flickering over Jinwoo’s face. “Jinwoo?” He asks, his hand weakly grasping out for the older man. His voice is weak, trembling with distress.

“Yeah?” Jinwoo responds, folding his hand over Minhyuk’s.

“Different,” Minhyuk replies. “Face.”

Sanha feels confusion stir in his chest, hot and thick, like soup.

“Different face?” Jinwoo asks, glancing over at Sanha, searching for answers.

He can only shrug in response, “He hasn’t responded to much, yet. Keep talking to him,” he murmurs. “It’s helping him.” Sanha can’t help but feel a twinge of jealously, plucking inside him. Hadn’t he helped at all?

Jinwoo nods, one dip and rise of his head. He flicks back to Minhyuk, “Is my face different? I don’t think so. Hey,” he begins, changing the subject. “Has Sanha been taking good care of you?”

“Sanha?” Minhyuk asks, lips curling downward. “I… don’t know…”

Sanha falters, his heart leaping up in his throat, a weight on the end of his tongue, dry. Jinwoo gazes up at him warily. “Minhyuk…” Don’t play games…”

Minhyuk turns his head over to him, then back to his best friend, “Jinwoo… Is that… Sanha?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know how you feel about the fic and if you would like be to continue it!! in the comments below, or hit me up on my (reactivated) tumblr 'parkjinchu' or my twitter, also 'parkjinchu'!

**Author's Note:**

> did you enjoy?? i hope so...  
> chat to me all about it on my [twitter](twitter.com/parkjinchu) or my [tumblr](parkjinchu.tumblr.com)!


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